I'm about to leave the Metropolis for a far away land where men wear skirts and women have a hierarchical system based on the number of their remaining teeth (you haven't heard that for a while so humour me); this will include a short trip to the Hebridean island of Mull where we will be looking at White Tailed Eagles.

Twitch, twitch.

Also there are plans afoot to run the River Ayr Way Race, an event that, since it's inception, I've run every year. Last year Tim Downie's arse got a whupping. This year it may well be my arse that's in tatters. And my feet. And lungs. And legs. Every training run over 12 miles since May has been a disaster.